


As We Wind On Down The Road

by HalfshellVenus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/pseuds/HalfshellVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>(Early/mid <b>S3</b>)</i> With so little time left, Sam's had all he can take of Dean pushing him away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As We Wind On Down The Road

**Author's Note:**

> This is my **Sweet Charity** story, for the lovely Debbie ([](http://particlesofgale.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://particlesofgale.livejournal.com/) **particlesofgale** ). I hope this has all the things you wanted, Debbie!

x-x-x-x-x

"I'll meet you back here by tomorrow morning, at the latest. Don't wait up."

That's all Dean says, but that's supposed to be enough. Sam's expected to just sit tight, no words, no questions, no protests, no "It's my life too—how the hell did it turn into this?"

Sam's alive, and so he's not allowed to complain. He's not allowed to say he's lonely _right now,_ with almost the whole year left and Dean not dead yet but might as well be dead.

That doesn't mean he's not thinking it.

~*~

The last thing Sam remembers from before is some kind of showdown in the dark with Jake. He figures he lost, though the details are gone.

He remembers there was a plan, some kind of competition. It doesn't make much sense now, probably didn't then, but that was the setup the demon laid out for him. Where it all led he doesn't know, because he never planned to win.

He was sore when he woke up, but just mostly felt like crap—stiff and thrashed, his body slow to come around and his head filled with mud. He didn't look that bad, not compared to how he felt, though the way Dean rushed to hug him said he'd been through worse than what showed.

Dean's hovering afterward should have confirmed it, though at the time Sam put it down to being transported to where Dean couldn't reach him and couldn't protect him. That was exactly the kind of thing Dean got worked up over and it definitely grew old, but Sam was used to it. Most of Dean's control issues seemed to revolve around him.

At the Hellgate cemetery, the whole thing tilted on its side—the wound he didn't remember that could heal so quickly, Dean's naked relief at him being awake, and the few choice demon words Sam could overhear.

Dean at least didn't deny what he'd done when Sam confronted him with it afterward. But that was probably the last time Dean had the sense to be sorry.

Once Sam got over the panic of it, the sheer, raw panic of realizing what Dean had done and what it meant… he expected things to be different.

He thought they'd focus more of their energy—god, _any_ of Dean's energy—on figuring out how to undo the deal Dean had made. Instead, it was business as usual but twice as fast. They found more things to hunt down, more things for Dean to kill, they crossed different corners of the same state three times over in an aimless rush to get anywhere besides the place they'd just come from.

Months later, time is slipping by and none of that's changed. They're still driving point-to-point, no larger plan in mind, and Dean's still hurrying along like he can outrun the fate that's waiting. Sam's about ready to kill him if he doesn't knock it off.

They're no closer to an answer and somehow they've gotten farther away from each other.

Sam's heart is slowly breaking into pieces, scattered across all the places they've been. The pain is only made sharper by knowing that even if Dean were around more often, he'd never notice.

~*~

At night, Sam finds himself awake, wondering if he can stand it. It's bullshit, this decree Dean set down, like Sam's just going to hand Dean over at the end of the year, like it has to happen that way. Sam's never been the kind of guy to just put up and shut up, and if Dean knew Sam half as well as he knows _Dean,_ Dean would understand that.

Sam has racked his brains, he's read manuscripts and books until his head's ready to split, and still hasn't found an answer. He's got nothing to pull out of his sleeve, no angle to work from. But time keeps ticking on…

Sometimes he watches Dean in the dark, like he used to do when he was little. He'd wake up from a bad dream, and look over to see if Dean's eyes were open. He'd wait as long as he could for Dean to notice him—because sometimes Dean just _knew_ —and eventually crawl in next to him after probably not very long.

The difference now is that he's old enough that he's not supposed to need Dean so much. He's not allowed to ask for those reassurances.

And even if he did, Dean has nothing to give.

It's as if Dean understands that the price of his choice is hard on Sam— and going to get harder —but then the understanding stops. Any sign of Sam mourning him has to be stiff-armed away as fast as it comes. Dean doesn't think he's worth grieving over, but if it's going to happen it should be saved until after he's gone.

Like Sam could actually pull that off.

Sleeping in a pool of moonlight, Dean looks peaceful—almost innocent. He looks so young, _too_ young to have less than a year to live. Too young to be the last bit of family Sam's going to lose.

Dean's chest rises and falls slowly with each breath, so easy and carefree that it makes Sam ache to watch it. This is part of what he fights with every day, the fact that Dean's letting this all go so easily. Sam's right here, and Dean's always looking past him to the next sexual opportunity, the next stretch of highway, the next goddamned piece of pie.

Sometimes Sam thinks Dean's just doing everything it takes to keep from looking at _him_ —from seeing what he gave his life away for, from seeing the change that choice has caused inside them both.

~*~

Maybe it's getting dumped _for his own safety_ in a motel room with an air-conditioner that tries to set the room _and_ him on fire that does it. Or maybe it's being shot, which never fails to piss a guy off.

Either way, Sam has finally reached the practical limit of doing everything Dean tells him.

Not trying to save Dean was already out. Doesn't mean Sam's telling him that, because who wants to argue about it every day? But now the question of _how_ has gotten more slippery.

Other areas, though, Sam's gotten so sick of that he can't keep his mouth shut.

"Hey, there's this chick in Lake Wenatchee—"

"No."

"What?"

" _No,_ Dean. No chicks, no driving two states away so you can bang some girl you once knew however many years ago, just _no_."

"Jesus, what the hell's gotten into _you?_ "

There are so many pieces that make up Sam's refusal, but only some of them he can say. The others will seem ridiculous, _weightless_ to Dean— the futility of all this running around, the desperation under everything they do, and most of all Sam's jealousy as he watches Dean give himself away to strangers while Sam dies a little bit more inside each day.

"I'm not spending what time we've got left tagging along while you chase after the next piece of tail. If that's all you brought me back for, let's head over to Wyoming and void the whole thing out. You never should have done it in the first place anyway."

Dean looks stricken, his expression as raw as Sam has ever seen it. "Sammy," he pleads hoarsely, "I'd never do that, and you know it. The deal stands. It's what I wanted for you."

Sam scowls. "Not like this," he says.

Dean is silent—so silent Sam thinks he might finally have heard what's underneath everything they've dodged around for over a month now. Dean must have heard _something,_ because he doesn't bring up Lake Wenatchee. They follow an actual case instead.

Things are almost normal between them as they pursue hints of a werewolf in Michigan— Winchester-normal, which is something different. It doesn't last, and maybe that's an impossible thing to hope for. It turns out that while Sam waited for Dean to stop running from himself, Dean’s new mission became preparing Sam to let him go.

~*~

The girl sleeping ceaselessly on this bed looks nothing like Dean, but it doesn't matter. Just a little more than a year ago this was his brother, pale and frozen, and Sam remembers all too vividly the hospital smells and the hours spent wondering whether Dean would die or somehow manage to find his way back.

The year spent with Dean after surviving that near-death suddenly seems as if it passed in the blink of an eye. Sam knows this second year will finish just as fast if he can't find a way to stop it.

In front of him, some other family's tragedy awaits the imperfect mixture of heartbreak and mercy Sam offers. He hopes it doesn't come to that for him and Dean, and god knows he's still got at least one desperate possibility to pursue.

Hours later it's his brother Sam's watching, as Dean sleeps heavily in spite of the streetlight glare on his face or the weight of Sam's worry. Dean looks peaceful and perfect, untouched by his fate and unaware that Sam failed. Not that Sam will tell him—Dean had already vetoed every part of what Sam just tried to do.

_What's left?_ Sam wonders. Taking on the crossroads demon was supposed to be the failsafe, but the plan didn't work. Now Sam's got nothing.

Except gunpowder on his fingers and a hollow in his heart…

Dean dreams on while Sam sits in the dark, utterly lost. The ticking of Dean's watch drowns out the soft sounds of sleep, until its relentless rhythm is too much to bear.

Sam crosses the space between their beds, dropping down and covering the watch with his hand as he lays his head on Dean's mattress. Dean hardly stirs, but Sam is careful to stay still, keeping his own breath steady against the sudden ache caused by the sleep-warm scent of Dean that reminds him of all there is to lose.

~*~

Blindness falls away in unplanned moments. It took Dean lying in a hospital bed, fading away from a damaged heart, to make Sam wonder how in the hell could have left his brother behind like an outgrown toy just for the sake of going to college. An injury as serious as that one could have happened during any part of those last four years, but Sam wouldn't have known until it was too late—both for saving Dean and for a chance to say goodbye.

Now the sight of Dean in a tuxedo brings a wholly different realization. Suddenly, Sam sees that it's not just a brother he stands to lose, but someone he loves in ways that rules and society can't contain—someone his love could even make _complete_ if by some miracle Dean would let him.

But time is running out, and this is Dean, single-minded and stubborn. All these possibilities between them will disappear with Dean, and his brother will die without ever being loved the whole way through.

Sam steps behind Dean to fasten his brother's bow tie, hands shaking as he works the patterns of loops and folds until he's done. _Not like that,_ he decides. _I'm not letting Dean go out lonely_. Somehow, he'll find a way to try.

He squeezes Dean's shoulders when he's finished, slow and easy. It's nothing like the way Sam feels inside, the restless urge to pull Dean close and hold him tight until the world stops spinning.

"Think I can fake my way through?" Dean asks.

"Just don't eat the decorations or throw holy water on the host," Sam answers hoarsely. "You look great," he adds. _And I'm glad I got to see this_.

"Not so bad yourself," Dean beams, his face filled with pride like a hundred other times— Sam writing his own name at age five, or hitting a home run, or getting all As.

Right now, Sam wishes he could remember them all.

~*~

The job's gone wrong, another bad moment in a fucked-up year where even when they're doing routine stuff, they just can't catch a break.

They're here to hunt vampires—familiar ground, though there's the newness of vampires who don't even realize what they've become (and god, how Sam hates the compromised ethics of killing villains with innocent hearts). But somehow Gordon's on the loose again, and he and his misguided sidekick are hunting _Sam_.

Now Sam and Dean are holed up in some crappy-assed hideout, stained mattresses propped up against the walls. They were careful not to leave a paper trail of aliases or anything else that would help Gordon find them, Gordon who is suddenly more lethal than ever.

As if vampire-powered-Gordon is even _close_ to what the Winchesters need right now…

Sam's jumpy inside, restless with waiting. Dean's wearing it on the _outside_ where it's only obvious to someone who really knows him. Sam's the one person left who qualifies.

This is sheer loneliness, loving Dean this way. There's no-one to talk to about it (definitely not Dean, who chose the very future that forms the center of Sam's pain). The more Sam's love expands the more doomed it all becomes. Now the deadline on Dean's future and the added weight piled onto those last-time-ever moments only make everything that much harder.

Dean himself makes it worse, shifting between denial mode to breaking Sam's heart with all the details of what Sam needs to learn for when Dean's not around anymore. Like it's easy for Sam to listen to that.

Things change, but somehow it all comes back to the same point anyway. Today, for instance: Dean's no longer running after women all the time, but he's still running. Earlier it was the phone store, and now it's this plan to go handle Gordon on his own while Sam stays safely behind like some useless fairytale princess.

But what scares Sam worse than losing Dean is the threat of losing him _early_ —before that allotment of days Sam has left with him runs its course. Before Sam's had a chance to rescue Dean from the consequences of that contract.

He's not letting Dean out of his sight.

"Just another day at the office," Dean says, like Sam's worrying for nothing. "It's a massively _dangerous_ day at the office…"

And Sam's so fucking sick of the way Dean tries to joke his way out of these conversations, as if that'll keep all of it from being real, as if that future in Hell is no big deal. Sam knows the truth: Dean's freaked, and trying to hide it—even from himself.

Sam's angry enough to actually say something like that out loud.

Dean calls him on it immediately: "And how do you know that?"

"Because I _know_ you," Sam answers.

"Really," Dean says flatly.

"Yeah, because I've been following you around my entire life," Sam says. "I mean, I've been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother." It hurts to remember how true that was, that it's _still_ true, even though trying to be like Dean hasn't lessened the pain of any part of the last few months.

"So yeah, I know you," Sam forces himself to continue, "better than anyone else in the entire world. And this is exactly how you act when you're terrified." His throat is so tight he can hardly swallow. "And I mean, I can't blame you. It's just..."

"What?" Dean says softly.

It shouldn't be so hard for Sam to say it, not when he's carried it around so long, but his eyes burn with how desperately he needs Dean to understand, to finally _change_ : "It's just that I wish you'd drop the show and be my brother again. Because..."

_Because it's killing me, already missing you while you're still here and knowing I'm running out of time._

"Just 'cause," he finishes weakly.

Something must be different, after all the times he's hinted and protested, because Dean looks at him like he finally _hears_ what Sam is saying. "All right," Dean answers.

It's so unexpected that Sam almost forgets to breathe.

He swipes a fist over his cheeks, drying the evidence of those months of isolation and anguish that stretched out so hopelessly before this moment of sudden relief. Dean pats his shoulder in passing, but Sam pulls him close for a hug, clinging to Dean's solid strength the way a drowning man holds onto driftwood against the danger of open sea. It still surprises him that Dean's the smaller one now; Sam can't get used to that fundamental change. He needs more time for that, for—

"Dude!" Dean squeaks, as Sam holds him too tight.

"Sorry." Sam loosens his grip and Dean steps away. The air rushes in between them, too cool against the empty space at the front of Sam's chest.

They strengthen the hideout's barricades and burn herbs to cover their scent. Then they settle in to wait for sunrise.

There's no way to anticipate what actually happens instead: Gordon finds a way to draw them out of safety long before morning comes.

~*~

Trapped in the near-black darkness inside the factory, Sam searches for Gordon, for the sheen of movement reflecting forth from the shadows. He knows that Gordon's there.

Dean and the Colt are blocked off by a wall, and it's just Sam and Gordon in this killing box. Only one of them will leave.

They argue, circling each other in the dark—Sam feels Gordon's presence even if he can't see him, the call of predator to prey. Then the brutal impact of Gordon's body forces Sam through the wall and down to the cold concrete floor, where he lies half-dazed. The room is dim, its scarce light gleaming off of Gordon's face as he hauls Sam up and throws him down again, before shifting his attention to Dean

Sam's head is still reeling as Gordon lifts Dean up against the wall, closing in on Dean's neck for a final act of revenge.

"No!"

Launching himself forward Sam clubs Gordon loose, fury battling inhuman strength as they struggle. Gordon shoves Sam against a table, bringing the smell of blood and sweat and decay with him as he moves closer and slams Sam down again all too easily.

Dragging himself up shakily, Sam moves by will alone. His hands grab onto the wire cabling that lies in front of him. With one swift move, he loops it around Gordon's neck.

Time stops as Sam's entire body focuses on ending this here and now, ending it forever. He pulls the wire as tight as he can, and does not relent when it catches in the flesh of Gordon's throat. He keeps pulling when the world goes silent, when it narrows down to black and white and the simple question of survival

It's only after everything turns red and raw and final that Sam realizes he can now let go.

_Dean_. Sam's gaze flicks over to where Dean was standing when Gordon almost— _almost_ —and there Dean is, watching all of it, watching _him_. "I—"

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says too quickly, like the only monster in this room is already dead. "Let's get out of here."

Neither one of them speaks in the car. Sam can't find the words to cope with what he did—something both so horrifying and _necessary_ —and Dean… Dean's probably wondering exactly who or what he resurrected when he made that deal.

God knows Sam's wondered that himself.

Sam's hands are bloody, from where the wire cut into his palms. But they've _been_ bloody for a long time now, with everything he unleashed from the Hellgate, every corner cut in battle, every lost hour of Dean's final year.

That last part hurts the most.

Sam sneaks glances at Dean, afraid of what he'll see. Dean just drives, his fingers clutching the steering wheel tight, and if he notices Sam nearly coming out of his skin beside him he doesn't say a word.

Back at the hideout, Sam rushes for the sink. He washes his hands a couple of times, and then his face—like that'll clean what's waiting there inside him.

Dean works Sam over with disinfectant, wrapping gauze over his wounds. "Honestly what else do you think you could have done, Sammy?" Dean asks. "He was going to kill you!"

"It's not that," Sam says, "it's just… I didn't even think about it, I just _did_ it. I never used to be like that."

"You didn't have people stalking you and trying to kill you before, either. Better him than you—and I definitely would've been next."

"It's not that simple," Sam insists. "I've _changed,_ Dean." He grips Dean's shoulders, trying to make him see the truth. "I don't know who I _am_ anymore."

"You're Sam, the same as always." Dean's words seem to come automatically, already dismissing the whole problem— like none of the self-loathing and doubt that pushed Sam to this ragged edge is real.

"Yeah?" Frustration makes Sam reckless, even desperate. "Then I suppose _this_ is business as usual too." He leans in and kisses Dean fiercely, holding on like he never wants to let Dean go.

Dean freezes and then softens just for an instant, almost kissing back. But then he breaks it off to protest: "Sammy—"

"Shh…" Sam kisses him again, chasing the one thing in the last few months that approaches anything like happiness. When he slides his hand up to cradle Dean's face, Dean shudders and just _opens_ to him as if everything Dean's been searching for his whole life is suddenly right here.

The heat of Dean's mouth under his rises up through Sam, bringing back that desperation and shifting its focus. Sam pulls Dean closer, kisses into him like he can make all the barriers and distance that ever came between them dissolve into nothing. Like what they stand to lose is too important not to take hold of and _claim_ while the chance is there.

Dean plunders Sam's mouth with all the intensity he brings to a hunt. One hand grips Sam's neck and the other tightens around Sam's waist, bringing their bodies into alignment and trapping the insistent, aching hardness there between them.

Suddenly, Sam wants everything right here and now, wants it like he's forgotten what it means to be careful about the future or with his heart. He'd planned on loving Dean to the fullest while he still could, and if there'll ever be a better starting point than this one he can't imagine when it'll come along.

He pushes Dean against the nearest wall, slipping his knee between Dean's legs and working his way back until their hips lock firmly together. Sam swivels and rolls his hips for friction, and Dean groans into Sam's mouth, his hands sliding down over Sam's ass and trapping it close and firm while Dean moves against him in return.

Every nerve ending in Sam's groin lights up, and he knows it's the same for Dean. He can feel it, and god knows he's seen it all before—those times when Dean went from looking at a girl to practically doing her on the dance floor after a few kisses, or Dean bringing a woman back to the motel and barely getting inside the door before it was time for Sam to leave.

Sam knows a little too much about this part of Dean, and he's always been a little more interested in it than he should be. Right now, the sounds Dean's making are threatening to turn Sam stupid, so he stops and holds himself away from his brother while he still can: "Slow down a second. I don't want to rush you into anything you don't want."

Dean just rubs up against him with a wicked smile. "Does this _feel_ like I'm not into it?"

Sam can't even keep his eyes open, not with that assault of _Yes-more-right-now-please_. A growl rises in his throat and he leans down to kiss Dean, rough and uneven and urgent.

The scrape of stubble is different—a totally unexpected turn-on, just like the muscles under Sam's touch. Then Dean yanks him the rest of the way in and fits them together, front-to-front, heat against hardness, as his hands guide the rhythm of Sam's movements and his mouth finds Sam's neck, his lips, his tongue.

Sam's heart pounds so wildly he can feel it echo off of Dean's skin. Trapping his brother up against the wall, he pushes and twists enough to make Dean huff out a breath of arousal on each slow-and-dirty lift.

"Sammy—" Dean gasps, his body tightening suddenly and then shuddering in uneven jerks and moans. Sam swallows the sounds from Dean's mouth and keeps on moving, driving toward the red haze of ecstasy closing in around him. When he finds it, the swift burning through his groin spikes and shifts, a wave of intensity filled with the smell and taste of Dean everywhere around him. Sam rides it to the end, his face buried against the side of Dean's neck.

When he comes back, it's to the brush of Dean's fingers through his hair and the unexpectedly loud, broken sound of his own breathing. "God…"

Dean laughs softly. "Yeah, pretty much."

But then his hand stops its lazy movement on Sam's head.

This is the point where the second-guessing usually begins, and Sam can practically feel Dean starting to back away from their newfound intimacy. He's not about to let that happen.

Rubbing his face slowly against Dean's neck, he moves his mouth in a whisper-touch along the underside of Dean's jaw. Dean tips his head in response, and by the time Sam nears his chin he's already turning automatically for the kiss.

It's softer now, sure and unhurried, and so perfect it makes Sam dizzy with need. Having Dean's attention centered around him was the thing he'd missed most, but having _all_ of Dean was something he'd never thought possible. Now that he's had it, he wants to keep it close forever.

His arms slip around Dean, drawing him in firmly. One hand cups the back of Dean's head and the other surrounds his waist, stroking and reassuring through the kiss as Dean turns into lithe, willing tension.

Sam breaks off for a moment, fingers gently rubbing the back of Dean's neck. "Don't go anywhere, Dean," Sam whispers against his brother's lips.

"Where would I go, Sammy?"

Dean sounds so resigned that Sam kisses him again and again before answering, "Don't disappear inside yourself, where I can't find you." Another kiss, this one the softest of all. When Dean's hands come up to rest on either side of Sam's face, Sam thinks his point might actually have gotten through.

After it finally ends, Sam puts a hand behind the mattress next to him and pushes it over onto the floor. "C'mon," he says, "let's get comfortable for the night. I've got our bed waiting right here."

Dean blinks at Sam's choice. "You crazy romantic."

"A couple of blankets'll take care of it." Sam gathers them from the other side of the room and brings them over, with some clothes to use for a pillow. He sets up a candle next to the bed, then turns off the lights. Dean's already got the covers made up for the two of them and has slipped inside, his eyes watching Sam in the near-darkness.

Sam gets in and moves next to him, lying on his side and reaching over to pull Dean close. He rubs Dean's shoulder, his neck, and then the side of his face with slow, smooth strokes.

Dean stretches his hand out tentatively, brushing over Sam's arm. The uncertainty in his eyes is a question Sam answers with more kisses and a warm, certain touch.

"Is this what _you_ want?" Dean asks in the space between breaths.

"Absolutely," Sam says, his grip tightening as he thinks of losing this closeness he spent so long chasing. "God, I missed you," he adds suddenly, the words tumbling out of him unexpectedly. From the look in Dean's eyes, Sam can tell he understands.

He kisses Dean down into sleep then, thumbs sweeping softer and softer over the weariness of Dean's face until his brother lies still and relaxed under his touch.

The light from the candle flickers over Dean's cheek, over the dark fall of lashes against it. He and Dean haven't solved the problem of escaping Dean's future yet, but they know the search will no longer be lonely.

Sam watches Dean as the rain falls outside, its wet hush familiar, rhythmic and soothing. Then finally, his heart grown peaceful at last, Sam slips off into sleep beside him.

 

_\-------- fin ---------_


End file.
